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THE FIRE DIVINE 



By R. W. GILDER 

THE NEW DAY 

THE CELESTIAL PASSION 

L YRICS 

TWO WORLDS 

THE GEE A T REMEMBRANCE 

The above also in one volume entitled 
FIVE BOOKS OF SONG 

IN PALESTINE, AND OTHER POEMS 

POEMS AND INSCRIPTIONS 

1 1 IN THE HEIGH TS ' ' 

THE FIRE DIVINE 

A ho selections entitled 

FOR THE COUNTRY 

A CHRISTMAS WREATH 

A BOOK OF MUSIC 



THE FIRE DIVINE 



BY 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

MCMVII 



Lt&7?*KY of CONGRESS] 
iwu Oouies Received 

OCT 9 I90f 

Copyneht Entfy 

C<f4 r<?«7 

CLASS A XXc, No, 

f89f3 & 

COPY B. 



TS 



7 fi 



/?°7 



Copyright, 1907, 

By Richard Watson Gilder. 

All rights reserved. 

Published October, 1907. 



IRVING PRESS NEW YORK 



r 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Fire Divine n 

The Invisible (At a Lecture) 13 

Destiny (After Reading a Work on Astronomy) . . .15 

The Old Faith 16 

The Doubter's Soliloquy 18 

Law 21 

Souls 22 

"Spare Me My Dreams" 24 

Hymn (Thanksgiving for Saints and Prophets) .... 25 

The Valley of Life 27 

To One Impatient of Form in Art 30 

To the Poet 32 

Compensation 34 

The Poet's Secret 36 

" The Day Began as Other Days Begin" .... 37 

A Poet's Question 39 

Prelude for "A Book of Music" 40 

Music at Twilight 44 

Music in Moonlight 47 

The Unknown Singer 49 

v 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Voice 50 

Wagner 51 

' ' The Pathetic Symphony" (Tschaikowsky) .... 51 

MacDowell 52 

A Fantasy of Chopin (Gabrilowitsch) 54 

u How Strange the Musician's Memory" .... 54 

u In a Night in Midsummer" 55 

In the White Mountains 57 

John Paul Jones 58 

To Emma Lazarus (1905) 59 

Carl Schurz 60 

George MacDonald 62 

Josephine Shaw Lowell 64 

"One Rose of Song" (Mary Putnam Jacobi) .... 67 

John Malone (1906) 69 

" Lost Leaders " (City Club Memorial in Honor of Wheeler 
H. Peckham, James C. Carter, William H. Baldwin, Jr., 

and Norton Goddard) 70 

On a Certain Agnostic (G. E.) 72 

" A Weary Waste Without Her" (L. B. P.) ... 73 

The Poet's Sleep (T. B. A.) 74 

Where Spring Began 74 

Avarice 75 

Pity the Blind 76 

Proof of Service (To R. F. C.) 77 

Conquered 78 

Blame (A Memory of Eisleben, the Place of Luther's Birth 

and Death) 79 

The Whisperers (New York, 1905) 80 

vi 



V 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Before the Grand Jury 83 

' ' In the Cities" 85 

A Tragedy of To-day (New York, 1905) 89 

The Old House 94 

" There's No Place Like the Old Place" (Old Home 

Week, Tyringham, 1905) . 101 

Glen Gilder 109 

Song: Maria Mia 112 

Obscuration 114 

"I Dreamed" 114 

Impromptus : 

" From Love To Love" (For a wedding) . . .115 
44 1 Asked You to Read My Poem" . . . .115 

Nazimova 116 

A Warrior of Troy 116 

The Obelisk (1881) 117 

Crowned Absurdities 117 

To " Little Lady Margaret " — With a Book of 

Poems 117 

Sacrilege 118 

To the Hero of a Scientific Romance . . . ir8 
The Watchman on the Tower (January, 1907) . . .119 
Under the Stars ; A Requiem for Augustus Saint 
Gaudens 125 



vil 



THE FIRE DIVINE 



THE FIRE DIVINE 

HE who hath the sacred fire 
Hidden in his heart of hearts, 
It shall burn him clean and pure, 
Make him conquer, make endure. 
He to all things may aspire, 
King of days, and souls, and arts. 
Failure, fright and dumb dismay 
Are but wings upon his way. 
Imagination and desire 
Are his slaves and implements. 
Faiths and foul calamities, 
And the eternal ironies, 
Are but voices in his choir. 
Musician of decreed events — 
Hungers, happinesses, hates, 
Friendships lost, all adverse fates, 
All passions and all elements, 
ii 



THE FIRE DIVINE 

Are but golden instruments 

In his glorious symphonies. 

Subject to his firm decrees 

Are the heavens, are the seas; 

But in utter humbleness 

Reigns he, not to ban, but bless, — 

Cleansed, and conquering, and benign 

Bearer of the fire divine. 



12 



THE INVISIBLE 

(at a lecture) 

SUCH pictures of the heavens were never seen. 
We stood at the steep edge of the abyss 
And looked out on the making of the suns. 
The skies were powdered with the white of stars 
And the pale ghosts of systems yet to be ; 
While here and there a nebulous spiral told, 
Against the dark, the story of the orbs — 
From the impalpable condensing slow 
Through ages infinite. 

Each mighty shape 
Seemed as the shape of speed, — a whirling wheel 
Stupendously revolving, — 
And yet no eye of man may see it stir. 
(That moveless motion brings to the human brain 
A hint of the large measurements of time, — 
Eternity made present.) 
*3 



THE INVISIBLE 

Such new sense 
Of magnitudes that make our world an atom 
Might crush the soul, did not this saving thought 
Leap to the mind and lift it to clear heights: — 
" 'T is but the unseen that grows not old nor dies, — 
Suffers not change, nor waning, nor decay. 
This that we see, — this casual glimpse within 
The seething pit of space, — these million stars 
And worlds in making, these are nought but matter ; 
These all are but the dust upon our feet, 
And we who gaze forth fearless on the sight 
Find not one equal, facing from the vast 
Our sentient selves. Not one, sole, lonely star 
In all the infinite glitter and deep light 
Can make one conscious movement; all are slaves 
To law material, immutable, — 
That Power immense, mysterious, intense, 
Unseen as our own souls, but which must be 
Like them the home of thought, with will and might 
To stamp on mindless matter the soul's will. 
For in these souls of ours triumphant dwells 
Some segment of the large creative Power, — 
A thing beyond the things of sight and sense, — 
A strength to think, a force to conquer force ; 
Something unquenchable, eterne, divine." 

14 



I 



DESTINY 

(after reading a work on astronomy) 
SEE it all; my soul the dregs hath drunk 



Of man's last, helpless, hopeless destiny; 
Born of the primal ooze, where slow light sunk, 
And climbing to the secrets of the sky; 

Through countless million years the spiral mounts 
Till nature, a companionable slave, 
Bows to man's bidding; lo, then, the deep founts 
Run gradual dry, earth turns its own chill grave. 

The insatiate desert marches on the sown, 
The sea exhales, the very air is gone, 
And, gasping in the silent void, the race 

Dies with the planet. — But not this the doom 
Of man's outlooking soul; that hath no tomb, 
Being quenchless as the law and lord of space. 



15 



THE OLD FAITH 

ON that old faith I will take hold once more — 
Now that the long waves bear me to the shore 
And life's brief voyage is o'er; 

Near is the looked-for land, — 
One wild leap on the strand 
And the dear souls I loved of old 
I shall again behold, 
And arms that held me once, shall hold again. 

In blinding ways of men 
Long did I mourning doubt, 

Saying — " Into the universe have they gone out 
And shall be lost 

In the wide waves of unseen, infinite force; 
For nature heeds not all the bitter cost 
But rushes on its course 
Unto the far, determined goal, 
Without self-conscious knowledge, or remorse." 

16 



THE OLD FAITH 

But now the time is come, the test draws near, 
And sudden my soul is innocent of fear. 

O ye beloved! I come! I cry 
With the old passion ye shall not deny! 
I know you, as I knew 
When life was in its dew; 

Ah, nought of me has suffered inward change, 
Nor can be change essential even in you, 
However far the freer spirit's range. 
Soul shall find soul; there is no distance 
That bars love's brave insistence, 
And nothing truly dies 
In all the infinite realm of woe and weal; 
Throughout creation's bound thrill answers thrill 
And love to love replies. 



i7 



THE DOUBTER'S SOLILOQUY 

A WHITE lie, even as the black, I learned to 
hate; 
Being taught clear truth by honest parentage, 
And, haply, somewhat morbid in this matter. 
'T would come, I fear, not easy to deceive 
Even death-beds, for their good, that men, indeed, 
Might, as they say, " die happy." Not that I 
Have never eased, by little lies that helped, — 
(Being gray with years), to smooth a neighbor's path, 
Or even mine own. And I have read brave tales 
Wherein the hero like a hero lied, 
And saved the other hero from some shame, 
Or loss, or ill that seemed itself a lie. 
Such tragi-comedies, I've thought, mayhap 
Argued a sophist mind in them who wrote. 

Once reading such a pretty history 
The thought came on me with a sickening stroke: 

18 



THE DOUBTER S SOLILOQUY 

" But what of all the martyrs who died singing, 

Smiling and singing in the face of pain, — 

Of tortured, useless death; seeing just beyond 

The flame, the scorch, the shudder — sudden joy; 

Joy so intense it threw a splendor back 

Into the midst of unfelt agonies! 

And what of those, — the unknown martyrdoms, — 

The myriads of faithful, humble souls 

Who horribly suffered through long, faithful lives, 

Seeing the peace of God beyond the strife! 

What of all these if there be no awakening? 

If He permitted the Colossal Lie 

As opiate for the agony of life — 

Who were the sophist then?" 

But a voice spake 
And said: " Your argument requires a God 
All powerful, all present, and all wise, 
Who could prevent false notions of Himself 
And His designs, to fasten on men's minds. 
If such a God exists this is most sure 
He wills not to make plain His character 
And mode of government; witness through time 
A thousand gods, religions without end, 
Each in some souls, all reverent and sincere, 
Supreme, unquestioned; gods that grimly held 

19 



THE DOUBTER S SOLILOQUY 

Races and ages round about their thrones. 

" Your very doubt creates a mighty Power, 
Invisible, yet having human traits, 
And Him you judge with your sole, finite mind, — 
You doubt, you dread, you trouble your sad soul. 
Were it not best to follow those twin stars 
Which light each mortal path: the double stars 
Of Love and Duty? If by these you walk 
(This has been proved), a solace shall arrive, — 
A noble solace, a majestic joy. 
Whatever of life is worthy of the soul 
Then shall be yours. — Disdain, disdain all else! " 



20 



LAW 

TRUE love to liberty is never foe, 
And he who truly loves is truly free : 
Thus thought I when I heard the pulsing flow 
Of mighty music rushing gloriously 

Along the channels of unchanging law; 

Thus thought I when I gazed upon the skies 
And there the circling universe I saw 
Moving obedient in glad harmonies 

About a central, inescapable power: 

No sun, nor planet, nor wild comet's course 
But owns that sway in every separate hour 

Of all its centuries; to that one force 

Freely it yields, — as hearts that never rove 
But pour their being in a single love. 



21 



SOULS 

AND can it be? 
The heart that in the earth's far dawn knew 
God; 
The thought that seized the circling of the stars; 
The soul of fire that on that hill of Athens 
Builded immortal beauty; the brain enorm 
That peopled for all men and for all time 
A world Shakespearian; and can it be? — 
The mind imperial named Beethoven, 
Majestically chanting harmonies 
That hold the motions of the rhythmic worlds, 
And to far doomsday stir all living hearts; 
And he the framer of earth's mightiest dome, 
Painter sublime and poet marvelous, 
Who carved the likeness of his soul in stone, 
And in cold marble the hot heart of man 
Imprisoned eternally; and can it be? — 

22 



SOULS 

These, these and all the potencies of time 
Which throbbed in human form ; and can it be 
That the intensive fire that made them men, — 
Not trees, nor creeping beasts, nor stones, nor 

stars, — 
And gave identity to every soul 
Making it individual and alone 
Among the myriads; and can it be 
That when the mortal framework failed, — that fire 
Which flamed in separate and lonely life, 
These souls, slipped out of being, and were lost, 
Eternally extinguished and cast out, — 
Only to some obscure electric wave 
Giving new force, to some stray flower new grace, 
Unto some lover's vow more ardency; 
Making some island sunset more intense, 
Passing from fiery thought to chemic heat, — 
But all the universe empty of that one high 
And exquisite accomplishment and power, 
Forever and forever, — can it be? 



23 



"SPARE ME MY DREAMS" 



RELENTLESS Time, that gives both harsh 
and kind, 

Brave let me be 
To take thy various gifts with equal mind, 

And proud humility; 
But, even by day, while the full sunlight streams, 
Give me my dreams! 



Whatever, Time, thou takest from my heart, 

What from my life, 
From what dear thing thou yet may'st make me 
part — 

Plunge not too deep the knife; 
As dies the day, and the long twilight gleams, 
Spare me my dreams! 



24 



HYMN 

(thanksgiving for saints and prophets) 

TO Thee, Eternal Soul, be praise! 
Who, from of old to our own days 
Through souls of saints and prophets, Lord, 
Hast sent Thy light, Thy love, Thy word. 

We thank Thee for each mighty one 
Through whom Thy living light hath shone; 
And for each humble soul and sweet 
That lights to heaven our wandering feet. 

We thank Thee for the love divine 
Made real in every saint of Thine; 
That boundless love itself that gives . 
In service to each soul that lives. 

25 



HYMN 

We thank Thee for the word of might 
The Spirit spake in darkest night; 
Spake through the trumpet voices loud 
Of prophets at Thy throne who bowed. 

Eternal Soul, our souls keep pure, 
That like Thy saints we may endure; 
Forever through Thy servants, Lord, 
Send Thou Thy light, Thy love, Thy word. 



26 



THE VALLEY OF LIFE 

WHEN I was a child joyfully I ran, hand 
clasped in hand, now with my mother, now 
with my father, or with younger, blithe companions, 
now in sunlight, now in shadow and dread, through 
the strange new Valley of Life. 

Sometimes on the high-road, then over the fields 
and meadows, or through the solemn forests; 
sometimes along the happy brook-side, listening to 
its music or the roaring of the falls, as the pleasant 
waters hurried or grew T still, in the winding way 
down the Valley of Life. 

And as w r e went along, hand clasped in hand, 
sometimes the hand-clasp was broken, and I, a 
happy child, ran swiftly aside from the path to 
gather flower or fruit or get sight of a singing bird; 
or to lean down and pluck a pearly stone from 
under the lapping waves; or climbed a tree and 
swayed, shouting, on its waving boughs, — then 
returned to the clasp of loving hands, and so passed 
on and on down the opening Valley of Life. 

27 



THE VALLEY OF LIFE 

In the bright morning I walked wondering; won- 
dering I walked through the still twilight and 
many-colored sunset; watching the great stars 
gather, and lost in the mystery of worlds beyond 
number, and spaces beyond thought, till, side by 
side, we lay down to sleep under the stars in the 
Valley of Life and of Dreams. 

Then there came a time when the hands that 
held me — the loving hands that guided my steps 
and drew me gently on — turned cold, and slipped 
from my grasp; I waited, but they came not back, 
and slowly and alone I plodded on down the Valley 
of Life and of Death. 

" Where went they?" — I asked my heart and the 
whispering waters and the sighing trees, — "Where 
went my loving and well-beloved guides? Did they 
climb the hills and tarry; did they, tired, lie down 
to sleep and forget me forever; leaving me to 
journey on without their dear care down the long 
Valley of Life ?" 

I could not know, for I heard no answer except 
my own heart's beating. But other comrades 
came, — one dearer than all, — and as time went on 
I felt the little hands of my own children clasping 
mine while, once more happy and elate, with 

28 



THE VALLEY OF LIFE 

them I travelled down the miraculous Valley of 
Life. 

But, as on I wander, hearing their bright voices, 
and seeing their joy upon the way, — their happy 
chasings here and there, their eager run to hold 
again our hands, — how soon, I think, shall I feel 
the slipping away of the clasping fingers while I 
fall asleep by the w r ayside, or climb the cloud- 
enveloped hills, and leave those I love to journey 
on down the lonely Valley of Life? 

And I say: " Surely the day and the hour hasten; 
grief will be theirs for a season; then will they, as 
did I, with brave hearts journey on the appointed 
way. " But where then shall my spirit rest? Will it 
sink unconscious into endless night? or shall I, in 
some new dawn, and by some unimagined miracle 
not less than that which brought me here, wander, 
with those that led me once, and those I led, hand 
clasped in hand, as of old, by the murmuring waters 
and under the singing trees of the ever-wonderful, 
the never-ending Valley of Life? 



29 



TO ONE IMPATIENT OF FORM 
IN ART 



CHIDE not the poet that he strives for beauty, 
If still forthright he chants the thing he 
would, — 

If still he knows, nor can escape, the dire 
Necessity and burden of straight speech; 

Not his the fault should music haunt the line, 
If to the marrow cleaves the lyric knife. 

Who poured the violent ocean, and who called 
Earthquake and tempest and the crash of doom, 

He spread the sea all beautiful at dawn, 
And curved the bright bow 'gainst the black, spent 
storm, — 

He framed these late and lovely violets 
That under autumn leaves surprise the heart. 

Blame not the seeker of beauty if his soul 
Seeks it, in reverent and determined quest, 

30 



TO ONE IMPATIENT OF FORM IN ART 

And in the sacred love of loveliness 

Which God the all-giver gave — and satisfies; 

Fearing lest he match not life's poignant breath 
And the keen beauty of the blossoming day. 

ii 

No poet he who knows not the great joy 
That pulses in the flow and rush of rhythm, 

(Rhythm which is the seed and life of life, 

And of all art the root, and branch, and bloom), 

Knows not the strength that comes when vibrant 

thought 
Beats 'gainst the bounds of fixed time and space; 

For law unto the master is pure freedom, 
The prison-house a garden of delight. 

So doth the blown breath from the bugle's walls 
Issue in most triumphant melody; 

So doth the impassioned poet's perfect verse, 
Confined in law eterne, outshine the stars. 



3i 



TO THE POET 

T ET not thy listening spirit be abashed 
* — ' By the majestic ranks of ancient bards 
Or all the clarion singers of thy day : 
For in thy true and individual song 
Thou art a voice of nature, — as the wind, 
And cries of moving waters, and all shows 
And speaking symbols of the universe 
Are but the glorious sound and utterance 
Of the mysterious power that spake the Word — 
The immense first word that filled with splendid light 
And vibrant potency the house of life; 
Whose candles are a million, million stars, 
Whose windows look on gulfs unthinkable 
That bound our world. Think not on thine own self, 
But on the enormous currents silently 
That flood the unseen channels of still force, 
Or with the sound of earthquake and the shout 
Of circling storms complete an unknown doom. 

32 



TO THE POET 

Thine is the fate and function mystical, 
In forms of lyric and eternal art, 
Clearly to utter and re-syllable 
The primal Word : — So is thy verse of kin 
To the sea-shell, the lily and the leaf. 
It hath a natural right and majesty, 
Being of the infinite, all-evolving power 
True jet and symbol; kin to the morning star 
That in the sky of dawn sings with its mates. 



33 



T 



COMPENSATION 

^HE Angel of Life stood forth on the threshold 
of Birth 

And converse held with a spirit about to be born; 
And the Angel announced to the Soul awaiting its 

world: 
Choose thou ! for now thou must choose, and never 

hereafter. 
And if thou to beauty shalt bow, to Beauty and 

Art, 
And if to thy spirit all exquisite things be revealed, 
If the fate of the poet be thine, if a god thou 

would'st be, 
If thou in thy soul would'st joyfully seize and 

encompass 
The glories and grandeurs of earth, the sweetness 

supreme, 
The vision angelic, forbidden to eyes unanointed, 
The melodies silent to all save the holy of spirit, 
The signs and the secrets, the splendors, the exalta- 
tions, 

34 



COMPENSATION 

If these thou shalt choose, if these thou would'st 

know and impart, 
Even so, — : but forget not the price of the infinite 

wisdom, 
For the price of the passion of joy is the passion of 

sorrow, — 
And the cost of thy heaven is the burning and 

anguish of hell. 



35 



THE POET'S SECRET 

/ TP S HE secret — he has learned it 

-*■ And only, only he: 
Heaven in his heart hath burned it; 

To him alone 't is free, 
And them from him who learned it 

In wise simplicity. 
From thousand suns it flashes, 

It leaps in flower and flame; 
The spring, from winter's ashes, 

Cries out its silent name — 
The secret of the ages 

That, to the poet came. 
Unknown to all the sages 

However wise they be, 
Through his quick veins it rages 

And soul of ecstasy; 
It lightnings from his pages, 

In all his songs 't is sung: 
The secret of the ages — 

To be forever young. 



36 



-THE DAY BEGAN AS OTHER 
DAYS BEGIN" 

THE day began as other days begin, — 
The round of work, the implacable city's din; 
The New World's Babel, louder with each hour. 
Then in a by-way, — a still, secret bower, — 
A temple given to silence and to books; — 
And in its heart a sacred nook of nooks. 
There, in the silence, from a priceless store 
Of written tomes, a guardian of their lore 
A manuscript uplifted to my view, 
With reverent, loving hands, — and then withdrew. 

Opening the book my gaze fell on that line 
Wherein the marvelous poet, the divine 
Singer of Endymion, his deathless song 
Began, and so beginning made immortal. 

37 



"THE DAY BEGAN AS OTHER DAYS BEGIN 

O dead, undying bard! now all the wrong 
Fate did thee rose ; through Memory's draped portal 
Trooped, in wan figures, all thy tragic story, — 
But mightier still the wonder and the glory 
Of that white page whereon thy soul was poured. 
Then with thy spirit my spirit likewise soared; 
Something immortal entered in this breast 
Miraculously; and like one confessed 
And throughly shriven, back to the world I turned 
While a new heart within me flamed and burned. 

And yet that morn, when grew the glare and din, 
The day began, as other days begin. 



38 



A POET'S QUESTION 

WHAT then shall make these songs of mine 
more real ; 
More tuneful, piercing, bright, — miraculous, 
As art should be? Shall some high, fortunate 

chant, 
Some song to come, flood backward on them all, — 
Over every word in all the singing flock, — 
A light, a meaning; a power to seize, to thrill; 
A swift beatitude and haunting beauty; 
Shall make of them a trouble to the base, 
Scourge to the false, sun to the darkened soul, 
Help to the fainting, succor to the bruised, 
A judgment to the heeding and unheeding? 
Or shall a flame leap from the singer's flight, 
Making them luminous in sudden dawn, — 
Bright in the chrism of Death. 



39 



PRELUDE FOR 
"A BOOK OF MUSIC" 

\T WITHOUT intent, I find a book I've writ 

* * And music is the pleasant theme of it; 
For though I can no music make, I trust 
Here 's proof I love it. 

Though no reasoning fine 
Should any ask to show this art divine, 
Yet have I known even poets who refuse 
To name pure music as an equal muse. 
If music pleased them, 't was not deeply felt, 
And in its charms they deemed it shame to melt; 
For that, they held, it is an art where might 
Even children give its votaries delight, 
And therefore lacking in the things of mind. 

40 



PRELUDE FOR " A BOOK OF MUSIC 

But 't is not argued well. There is a kind 
Of music that a little child can give, 
Echoing great masters; but the masters live 
Not in such echo — elfish, immature; 
'T is but a part of them. Ah, be ye sure 
Though lovely, not the loveliest; that must wait 
For him who noble moods can recreate 
With solemn, subtile, and deep-thoughted art 
That wins the mind or ere it takes the heart. 
For that a child may gracious music make 
Is but a sign that music doth partake 
Of something deep, primeval, that began 
When God dreamed of himself, and fashioned man. 
'T is near the source of being; it repeats 
The vibrancy that runs in rhythmic beats 
Through all the shaken universe; and though 
Its language shall take not the ebb and flow 
Of speech articulate, it is that tone 
Cleaves closer to life's core; the thing alone 
Well-nigh it is, not thought about the thing; 
No pictured flight across a painted sky, — 
The bird itself, the beating of its wing; 
The pang that is a cry ; 
Not human language, but pure ecstasy. 



4i 



PRELUDE FOR A BOOK OF MUSIC 

In this my Book of Music which hath come 
As does a lover's litany by some 
Miraculous chance, with added song to song, 
I trust I have my Lady done no wrong, — 
My Lady of Melody I worshiped long. 

Blameless the artist praises the sweet rose 
If in his art he aim not to compose 
An image, all inanimate, that seeks 
To copy shrewdly those inviolate cheeks 
Or the rich, natural odor imitate; 
But shows, as best he can, its grace and state, 
The love that in him burns for this fair flower, 
And all his joy therein, for one sweet hour. 
Nor shall the poet subtly strive to phrase 
For any heart save his what music says; 
For, — as before the autumn skies and woods, — 
A meaning gleams through our own human moods: 
Yet is the meaning real; and many a wound 
Wherewith our spirits are beaten to the ground 
Heals 'neath the sanctity of noble sound. 

Ah, not to match the music of the wires 
Or trembling breath, the instruments and choirs, 
But to tell truly how that moves the soul 
In the impassionate and rhythmic word, 

42 



PRELUDE FOR " A BOOK OF MUSIC 

By poesy's proper art, — which must be heard 
Even as music is! Not to forget 
The viol and the harp, the clarinet, 
The booming organ ; too, the intertwined 
Voices wherewith the sounding, rich clavier 
Struck by the master's hand enchants the ear, — 
If so may be to catch a fleeting strain 
And in new art imprison it again ! 
Then let him list to music who would rhyme; 
For every art, though separate, may learn, 
From the great souls in all, how to make burn 
Brighter the light of beauty through all time. 
And scorn not thou to read of music's power 
Over one soul that in great humbleness 
His memory brings of many a happy hour, 
Hoping these echoed tones some wounded heart 
may bless. 



43 



MUSIC AT TWILIGHT 



OH, give me music in the twilight hour! 
Then, skilled musician! thou of the magic 
power, 
Summon the souls of masters long since gone 
Who through thine art live on! 

As the day dies I would once more respire 
The passion of that spirit whose keen fire 
Flashes and flames in yearning and unrest 
And never-ending quest. 

Or listen to the quick, electric tones, 
Or moods of majesty, of him who owns 
The secret of the thrill that shakes the earth 
And moves the stars in mirth. 

And I would walk the shore of sound with him 
Whose voice was as the voice of cherubim : 
Musician most authentic and sublime 
Of all the sons of time. 

44 



MUSIC AT TWILIGHT 

Bring their deep joys, the breath of solitudes 
Dear dreams and longings, and high, hero moods; 
Aye, bring me their melodious despairs 
To die in twilight airs. 

For, given a rhythmic voice, re-uttered so, 
Sorrow itself is lost in the large flow 
Of nature; and of life is made such part 
As doth enrich the heart; 

And on the tide of music, to my soul 
Shall enter beauty's solace, — life be whole, 
Not broken by chords discordant, but most sweet, 
In sequent tones complete. 



Great is the true interpreter, for like 
No other art, two sentient souls must strike 
The spark of music that in blackness lies 
'Mid silent harmonies, 

Till, at a cunning touch, the long-lost theme 
Newly imagined, and new-born in dream, 
Clothed gloriously in garment of sweet sound 
Wakes from its darkened swound. 

45 



MUSIC AT TWILIGHT 

So would I ask, Musician! of thy grace 
That thou would'st bless and sanctify the place 
With august harmonies, well-loved of old; — 
But from thy manifold 

Miraculous memory fail not of thine own 
Imaginings enraptured of pure tone, 
That I may nearer draw to music's shrine, 
And mystery divine. 



4 6 



MUSIC IN MOONLIGHT 

WAS ever music lovelier than to-night? 
'T was Schumann's Song of Moonlight; o'er 
the vale 
The new moon lingered near the western hills; 
The hearth-fire glimmered low ; but melting tones 
Blotted all else from memory and thought, 
And all the world was music. Wondrous hour! 
Then sank anew into our tranced hearts 
One secret and deep lesson of sweet sound — 
The loveliness that from unloveliness 
Out-springs, flooding the soul with poignant joy, 
As the harmonious chords to harsh succeed, 
And the rapt spirit climbs through pain to bliss: 
Eternal question, answer infinite; 
As day to night replies; as light to shade; 
As summer to rough winter; death to life, — 
Death not a closing, but an opening door; 
A deepened life, a prophecy fulfilled. 

47 



MUSIC IN MOONLIGHT 

Not in the very present comes reply- 
But in the flow of time. Should the song cease 
Too soon; ere yet the rooted answer blooms, 
Lo, what a pang of loss and dissonance! 
But time, with the resolving and intended tone 
Heals all, and makes all beautiful and right. 
Even so our mortal music-makers frame 
Their messages melodious to men; 
Even so the Eterne his mighty harmonies 
Fashions, supreme, of life, and fate, and time. 



4 8 



THE UNKNOWN SINGER 

ONE singer in the oratorio, 
Her only did I see, nor can forget; 
Nor knew her name, nor have I seen her more, 
Nor could I in the chorus find her voice. 
Her swaying, gracious form, her face alight 
As with an inner flame of melody — 
These seized me; seemed the white embodiment 
Of all the angelic voices richly poured 
In a great rushing and harmonious flood. 
That human form, all beautiful and bright, 
Lived the pure, conscious, glorious instrument 
Wherethrough the master made his message felt — 
Conscious, but with no shallow vanity, 
A breathing image of a thought in sound, 
A living statue, symbol of a tone. 
That which she sang she was; and, unaware, 
Made music visible not less than heard. 



49 



THE VOICE 

RICH is the music of sweet instruments, — 
The separate harp, cornet, oboe, and flute, 
The deep-souled viola, the 'cello grave, 
The many-mooded, singing violin, 
The infinite, triumphing, ivoried clavier; 
And when, with art mysterious, some god 
Thrills into one the lone and various tones, 
Then is no hiding passion of the heart, 
No sigh of evening winds, no breath of dawn, 
No hope or hate of man that is not told. 

But when a human voice leaps from that surge 
'T is as a flower that bursts from th' trembling earth ; 
Something more wonderful assails the soul, 
As, with exultant cries, up-curving, swift, 
The shrill Walkiire clamor against the sky, 
Or pale Briinhilde moans her bitter fate. 



5o 



WAGNER 

THIS is the eternal mystery of art: 
He told the secretest secret of his heart, — 
How many mortals, with quick-flaming brow, 
Whispered, " Lo, this am I, — and that art thou!" 



"THE PATHETIC SYMPHONY" 



W 



(tschaikowsky) 

HEN the last movement fell, I thought: 
Ah me! 



Death this indeed; but still the music poured 

On and still on. Oh, deathlier it grew 

And then, at last, my beating heart stood still, - 

Beyond all natural grief the music passing, 

Beyond all tragedy, or last farewell. 

Then, on that fatal tide, dismayed I felt 

This living soul, my own, without one tear, 

Slowly, irrevocably, and alone, 

Enter the ultimate silence and the dark. 



5 1 



MACDOWELL 

REJOICE! Rejoice! 
The New World hath a voice; 
A voice of tragedy and mirth, 
Sounding clear through all the earth; 
A voice of music, tender and sublime, 
Kin to the master-music of all time. 

Hear ye, and know, — 
While the chords throb with poignant pause and 

flow, — 
Of the New World the mystic, lyric heart, 
Breathed in undaunted art: 
Her pomp of days, her glittering nights; 
The rich surprise 
And miracle of iridescent skies; 
Her lovely lowlands and imperial heights; 
Her glooms and gladness; 
Her oceans thundering on a thousand shores; 
Her wild-wood madness; 

52 



MACDOWELL 

Her streams adream with memory that deplores 

The red inhabitants evanished and undone 

That follow, follow to far lands beyond the setting 

sun. 
And echoes one may hear of ancient lores 
From the Old World's well-loved shores, — 
Primal loves, and quenchless hates; 
Striving lives, and conquering fates; 
Elves innocently antic 
Or wild-eyed, frantic; 
Shadow-heroes, passionate, gigantic, — 
Sons and daughters of the prime 
That moved the mighty bards to noble rhyme. 

Rejoice! Rejoice! 
The New World hath new music, and a voice. 



53 



A FANTASY OF CHOPIN 

(gabrilowitsch) 

LIGHTNINGS and tremblings and a voice of 
-* thunder; 

But when the winds are down, and spent the 
showers, — 
At the vast mountain's base, the sheer cliffs 
under, 
How sweet the summer flowers. 



"HOW STRANGE THE MUSICIAN'S 
MEMORY" 

J OW strange the musician's memory, never 
-*■ ■*■ wrong 

In symphony, sonata, fugue or song! 
Sees he the score with wide unseeing eyes, 
Or is it sound his heart doth memorize? 
What is it like? Behold, from out the West, 
The long light on the wild wave's flying crest. 
See the swift gleam rush up the leaning strand 
And die in foam upon the singing sand. 

54 



I 



IN A NIGHT IN MIDSUMMER" 

N a night of midsummer, on the still eastern 
shore of the ocean inlet, — 



In our hearts a sense of the inaudible pulsings of 
the unseen, infinite sea, — 

Suddenly through the clear, cool air, arose the 
voice of a wonderful tenor; soaring and sobbing 
in the music of "Otello." 

I knew that the singer was long dead; I knew 
well that it was not his living voice; 

And yet truly it was as the voice of a living man ; 
though heard as through a veil, still was it human; 
still was it living; still was it tragic; 

Still felt I the fire of the spirit of a man; I was 
moved by the passion of his art; I perceived the 
flower and essence of his person; the exquisite ex- 
pression of his mind, and soul; 

His soul it was that seized my soul, through his 
voice, which was as the very voice of sorrow; 

55 



"IN A NIGHT IN MIDSUMMER 

And then I thought : If man, by science and 
searching, can build a cunning instrument that 
takes over and keeps, beyond the term of human 
existence, the essence and flower of a man's art; 

If he can recreate that most individual attri- 
bute — his articulate and musical voice, and thus 
the very art and passion which that voice con- 
veys, — 

Why may not the supreme artificer, when the 
human body is utterly dissolved and dispersed, 
recover and keep forever, in some new and delicate 
structure, the living soul itself? 



56 



IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 

MOUNTAINS in whose vast shadows live great 
names, 
On whose firm pillars rest mysterious dawns, 
And sunsets that redream the apocalypse; 
A world of billowing green that, veil on veil, 
Turns a blue mist and melts in lucent skies; 
A silent world, save for slow waves of wind, 
Or sudden, hollow clamor of huge rocks 
Beaten by valleyed waters manifold; — 
Airs that to breathe is life and joyousness; 
Days dying into music; nights whose stars 
Shine near, and large, and lustrous; these, O these, 
These are for memory to life's ending hour. 



57 



JOHN PAUL JONES 



BEHOLD our first great warrior of the sea 
Who, in our war to make the half world free, 
His knightly sword in noble anger drew! 
Born to the Old he visioned clear the New. 

ii 

Born to the New — and shall we lose our faith 
And mourn for freedom as a fleeing wraith? 
Or heroes swift as he, and valorous, find 
In bloodless battles of the unfettered mind! 



58 



TO EMMA LAZARUS 

(1905) 

DEAR bard and prophet, that thy rest is deep 
Thanks be to God ! Not now on thy heart falls 

Rumor intolerable. Sleep, O sleep! 

See not the blood of Israel that crawls, 
Warm yet, into the noon and night; that cries 

Even as of old, till all the world stands still 

At rapine that even to Israel's agonies 

Seems strange and monstrous, a mad dream of ill. 
Thou sleepest! Yea, but as in grief we said: — 

There is a spiritual life unconquerable; 

So, bard of the ancient people, though being dead 
Thou speakest, and thy voice we love full well. 

Never thy holy memory forsakes us; 

Thy spirit is the trumpet that awakes us! 



59 



CARL SCHURZ 

IN youth he braved a monarch's ire 
To set the people's poet free; 
Then gave his life, his fame, his fire 
To the long praise of liberty. 

His life, his fame, his all he gave 
That not on earth should live one slave; 
True freedom of the soul he sought 
And in that battle well he fought. 

He fought, and yet he loved not war, 
But looked and labored for the day 

When the loud cannon silent are 

And holy peace alone hath sway. 

Ah, what a life! From youth to age 
Keeping the faith, in noble rage. 
Ah, what a life! From knightly youth 
Servant and champion of the truth. 
60 



CARL SCHURZ 

Not once, in all his length of days, 

That falchion flashed for paltry ends; 

So wise, so pure, his words and ways, 

Even those he conquered rose his friends. 

For went no rancor with the blow; 
The wrong and not the man, his foe. 
He smote not meanly, not in wrath; 
That truth might speed he cleaved a path. 

The lure of place he well could scorn 

Who knew a mightier joy and fate, — 

The passion of the hope forlorn, 
The luxury of being great, — 

The deep content of souls serene 
Who gain or lose with equal mien; 
Defeat his spirit not subdued 
Nor victory marred his noble mood. 



61 



GEORGE MACDONALD 

AH, loving, exquisite, enraptured soul, 
Who wert to me a father and a friend; 
Who imaged and brought near, all humanly, 
The sweetness and the majesty of him 
Who in Judea melted human hearts, 
And won the world by loveliness and love; 
Dear spirit, who to the Infinite Purity 
Passed, without change, and humbly unabashed - 
If farewell we must say, it is that thou 
So far beyond, above, we — alien so 
From grace like thine — may hardly follow close 
Thy shining feet in fields of endless light 
When to the goal of souls reborn we pass. 

Yet couldst thou not rest happy in that world 
Thou saw'st with eyes anointed, near that Christ 
Who wast to thee a human brother and friend, 
If we, thy brothers, with thee came not nigh. 

62 



GEORGE MACDONALD 

If ever saint with the Eternal strove, 
Then wouldst thou, wilt thou, strive and supplicate 
That not one soul be lost or suffer ill, 
If so may be, but win to the Infinite Love 
That was the faith, strength, life of all thy days. 

Our hearts are heavy — O, yet give we thanks, 
As thou didst give when died one dear to thee, — 
Thanks that thou livedst — that we knew and loved, 
Even in the flesh, one who was one with God. 



63 



JOSEPHINE SHAW LOWELL 

IT was but yesterday she walked these streets 
Making them holier. How many years, 
With all her widowed love, immeasurably 
She ministered unto the abused and stricken, 
And all the oppressed and suffering of mankind, - 
Herself forgetting, but never those in need ; 
Her whole, sweet soul lost in her loving work; 
Pondering the endless problem of the poor. 

In ceaseless labor, swift, unhurriedly, 
She sped upon her tireless ministries, 
Climbing the stairs of poverty and wrong, 
Endeavoring the help that shall not hurt, 
Seeking to build in every human heart 
A temple of justice — that no brother's burden 
Should heavier prove through human selfishness. 

64 



JOSEPHINE SHAW LOWELL 

In memory I see that brooding face 
That now seemed dreaming of the heroic past 
When those most dear to her laid loyal lives 
On the high altar of freedom; and again 
That thinking, inward-lighted countenance 
Drooped, saddened by the pain of human kind, 
Though resolute to help where help might be, 
And with undying faith illuminate. 

She was our woman of sorrows, whose pure 
heart 
Was pierced by many woes; and yet long since 
Her soul of sympathy entered the peace 
And calm eternal of the eternal mind; 
Inheritor of noble lives, she held 
Even to the end, a spirit of cheerfulness, 
And knowledge keen of the deep joy of being 
By pain all unsubdued. Sister and saint, 
Who to life's darkened passageways brought light, 
Who taught the dignity of human service, 
Who made the city noble by her life, 
And sanctified the very stones her feet 
Pressed in their sacred journeys! 



65 



JOSEPHINE SHAW LOWELL 

Most High God! 
This city of mammon, this wide, seething pit 
Of avarice and lust, hath known Thy saints, 
And yet shall know. For faith than sin is mightier, 
And by this faith we live, — that in Thy time, 
In Thine own time the good shall crush the ill; 
The brute within the human shall die down; 
And love and justice reign, where hate prevents, — 
That love which in pure hearts reveals Thine own 
And lights the world to righteousness and truth. 



66 



-ONE ROSE OF SONG" 

(MARY PUTNAM JACOBl) 

One rose of song 
For one sweet deed 
On her grave I fling. 
But, O, how can I sing 
When she takes no heed! 

My rose of song 
For a fragrant deed 
Though she takes no heed 
Still must I bring. 

Though she needs no praise, 

Though she hears not my song 

On her journey long 

In the new strange ways, — 

O still must I sing, 

My rose I must fling, 

Just to ease my heart 

Of the sorrow and smart. 

6 7 



" ONE ROSE OF SONG 

In a far-off land 

She stretched forth her hand 

To me and to mine. 

And now, for a sign, 

This song I sing 

And this rose I bring. 

Though she take no heed 
On her journey long, 
Yet a soul shall hear, 
Some soul shall take heed, 
And the rose and the deed, 
They shall sow their seed. 



68 



JOHN MALONE 

HIS actor in great Shakespeare's shadow 



T 

JL moved 



He thought his thoughts, he lived in Shakespeare's 

age. 
His were the tenets of that mighty stage: 
Therefore we mourn; therefore was he beloved. 



6 9 



LOST LEADERS" 



"T OST leaders" — no, they are not lost 
-* — ' Like shrunken leaves the wild wind tost. 
Them only shall we mourn who failed; 
When came the fight — who faltered, quailed. 



Raged not through blood and battle grime 
These heroes of our land and time; 
The foes they fought, with dauntless deed, 
Were shameless vice and maddened greed. 

in 

Not lost, not lost the noble dead — 
By them our doubting feet are led. 
Stars of our dark, sun of our day, 
They guide, they light the climbing way. 
70 



LOST LEADERS 



IV 



And if, in their celestial flight, 
The mist hath hid those forms from sight, 
Still, down the stormy path, we hear 
Their hero-voices ringing clear. 



Who for their fellows live and die, 
They the immortals are. O sigh 
Not for their loss, but rather praise 
The God that gave them to our days. 



7i 



ON A CERTAIN "AGNOSTIC" 

AGNOSTIC! Ah, what idle name for him 
Who knew — not the untruths of fables old, 
Cherished in fear, or arrant ignorance ; 
Who knew — not the shrewd structures of keen 

minds 
Intent on their own shrewdness; losing quite 
The inner truth in outward scaffoldings, 
Cunning appearances and schemes involved ; 
But who knew well the central verity: 
That honest thought followed, without dismay, 
Unto the bitter and accepted end, 
Is the one way to wisdom in this world ; 
Who knew not creeds, but could not help but follow 
The feet of him who loved his fellow men; 
Who knew that human service is true life; 
Who knew deep friendship, lived this knowledge 

out, 
As few called " friends " have ever dared to live; 
And who knew well the sacred truth of love. 
Ah, call him not unknowing, for he knew 
The truth of truth, — the gods can know no more. 



72 



"A WEARY WASTE WITHOUT 
HER" 

AWEARY waste without her? " Ah, but think ! 
You who were blest with the most sweet, 
most near 
Knowledge of that high nature; who could drink 
At her fresh spirit's fountain, year by year, — 
What were the past without her? And her dear 
Image and memory — did they too, sink 
Into the abyss? — Herself was yours, and here 
Still lives remembrance; a bright, golden link 
'Twixt this, the visible world, and the unknown 
Toward which we journey, — where she now doth 

live, 
Close to the Eternal one. Make thou no moan; 
What else may pass, this twofold gift endures; 
Give thanks, and mourn not then. — But, O, 

forgive, — 
How can I chide who mix my tears with yours? 



73 



THE POET'S SLEEP 

In spite of it all I am going to sleep. Put out 
the lights. — Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

EVER when slept the poet his dreams were 
music, 
And in sweet song lived the dear dream once more. 
So when from sleep and dreams again he wakes — 
Out from the world of symbols passing forth 
Into that spirit-world where all is real — 
What memoried music, new and exquisite, 
Shall strike on ears celestial, — where he walks 
Reverent among the immortal melodists! 



WHERE SPRING BEGAN 

THE days were cold, and clouded. On a day 
Before the seasonable warmth and sun 
The poet died. We bore him to the tomb 
And, under wreaths and flowers, we laid him down. 
Then came a burst of sunshine. Bright it poured 
On the banked blossoms and the leafless trees. 
There, at the poet's grave, the spring began. 



74 



AVARICE 

THEY said, "God made him," ah, the clean 
great God ! 
Perhaps! Even as he made the loathed beast 
Whose use is to take offal for his feast; 
As he made viper and vermin or, at a nod, 

Made hell, to do some necessary part 

In his wide-stretched, inscrutable universe. 

Yes, haply God imagined him for a curse, 

A. scourge, a vengeance ; with slow, patient art 

Him did he fashion cunningly; saying: " This 
My sign and warning, to time's distant end, 
That all a loveless life is may be known, 

And desolate horror of pure avarice; 

The world is his, — a world without a friend, — 
Without one friend an honest man would own." 



75 






"P 



PITY THE BLIND 



ITY the blind!" Yes, pity those 
Whom day and night inclose 
In equal dark; to whom the sun's keen flame 
And pitchy night-time are the same. 



But pity most the blind 
Who cannot see 

That to be kind 
Is life's felicity. 



7 6 



PROOF OF SERVICE 

THOU who would'st serve thy country and thy 
kind, 
Winning the praise of honorable men 
And love of many hearts, — know the true proof 
Of faithfulness lies not therein. That dwells 
In the lone consciousness of duty done, 
And in the scorn and contumely of souls 
Self-soiled with sin : the necessary hate 
Of perjured and contaminated spirits 
For that whose mere existence brings reproach, 
Shame, and despair for something lost forever. 
When thou hast won the hatred of the vile 
Then know thou hast served well thy fellow men. 



77 



CONQUERED 

IN thine anger it was said: 
"Would that mine enemy were dead." 
Or, if thou saidest nought, 
That was thy thought. 
Now thou cryest, night and day: 
" Mine enemy hath conquered in our fight, 
In that he fled away 
Into the darkness and the night, 
Ere I to justice wakened and the right. 
Now this through all the anguished hours I say, 
As with my soul my soul doth strive: 
Would God mine enemy were alive! " 



78 



BLAME 

(a memory of eisleben, the place of luther's 
birth and death) 

IN a far, lonely land at last I came 
Unto a town made great by one great fame. 
Born here, here died the noblest of his time, 
Whose memory makes his century sublime. 
But, O my God, I was not happy there, 
For down below, in dark and caverned air, 
Outstretched and cramped, the pallid miners lay. 
Their shortened lives, their absence from the day, 
Burdened my spirit with a sense of blame. 
Now you, and you — I see you flush with shame. 



79 



THE WHISPERERS 

(NEW YORK, I905) 

IN the House of State at Albany — in shadowy 
corridors and corners — the whisperers whis- 
pered together. 

In sumptuous palaces in the great city men talked 
intently, with mouth to ear. 

Year in and year out they whispered, and talked, 
and no one heard save those who listened close. 

Now in the Hall of the City the whisperers again 
are whispering, the talkers are talking. 

They who once conversed so quietly, secretly, 
with shrugs and winks and finger laid beside nose — 
what has happened to their throats? 

For speak they never so low, their voices are as 
the voices of trumpets; whisper they never so close, 
their words are like alarm bells rung in the night. 

80 



THE WHISPERERS 

Every whisper is a shout, and the noise of their 
speech goes forth like thunders. 

They cry as from the housetops — their voices 
resound up and down the streets; they echo from 
city to city and from village to village. 

Over prairies and mountains and across the salt 
sea their whispers go hissing and shouting. 

They say the thing they would not say, and 
quickly the shameful thing clamors back and forth 
over the round world; 

And when they would fain cease their saying, 
they may not, for a clear-voiced Questioner is as 
the finger of fate and the crack of doom. 

What they would hide they reveal, what they 
would cover they make plain; 

What they feared to speak aloud to one another, 
unwilling they publish to all mankind; 

And the people listen with bowed heads, wonder- 
ing and in grief; 

And wise men, and they who love their country, 
turn pale and ask: "What new shame will come 
upon us? " 

And again they ask, "Are these they in whose 
keep are the substance and hope of the widow and 
the fatherless? " 

81 



THE WHISPERERS 

And the poor man, plodding home with his scant 
earnings from his hard week's work, hears the 
voices, with bitterness in his soul. 

And thieves, lurking in dark places and furtively 
seizing that which is not their own; and the petty 
and cowardly briber, and he who is bribed, nudge 
one another; 

And the anarch and the thrower of bombs clap 
hands together, and cry out: "Behold these our 
allies!" 



82 



BEFORE THE GRAND JURY 

A WOMAN, who has been a man's desire, 
Now cast aside like ashes from a fire, 
With startled breath, confessing all her shame, 
Here, — looking in the faces of strange men, 
Who probe remorselessly their " where" and 

" when," — 
Falters her dreadful story, that the blame 
May strike on the betrayer. In that glare 
Plead piteous answers hardly might she dare 
Murmur, at midnight, on a mother's breast. 
Was ever secret misery confest 
To such grim audience! 

O hapless fate 
For this sweet girl, and for her guiltier mate. 

Powers of the world, and O, ye Powers Unseen, 
Be stern, yet be ye kind! Let be the ends 

83 



BEFORE THE GRAND JURY 

Of justice served; but hold a shield between 
Souls and the smiting sword. O, make amends 
In the oncoming years, or some far age. 
They are but caught in Nature's deathless rage; 
The fire that in their bodies burned doth hold 
The sun in heaven; part is it of the force 
That keeps the stars each on its mystic course, 
While the all-changing universe grows never old. 



8 4 



I 



"IN THE CITIES" 

N the cities no longer the blowing of trumpets 
that summon to battle, 

From splendid towers the banners flash not forth 
in the breeze, 

No longer the ringing of war-bells, and the clatter- 
ing sound of horsemen, 

The clangor of sword on shield, nor the cries of the 
feudal fighters 

Hurrying into the streets to strike with bullet and 
steel, 

Clamoring, battering down ; assailing high walls 
and windows; 

Rushing maddened, furious, to the killing of fellow- 
men ; — 

Yet still a clangor of bells and a loud, shrill whis- 
tling and Shouting, 

But the sharp, quick sounds that startle proclaim 
not anger but mercy. 

85 



44 IN THE CITIES 

For now, like winds and thunders, rush by the glit- 
tering engines, 
And the wagons, with ladders and axes, laden with 

well trained men 
Eager to quench the flame, and scale the dangerous 

battlements; 
Eager to risk their lives in the hissing blaze and 

the smoke 
That blinds, and that grips the throat like the 

throttling hand of murder. 
On come the engines and wagons, and the Chief in 

his hooting chariot, 
And a boy, who hears them approaching, rushes 

out to the crossing of ways, 
And, swinging his arms and shouting, clears a path 

for the shrieking engine, 
That rushes like winds and thunders down a vale of 

death and destruction, — 
And every man at his post, on the flying winds of 

the storm, 
Mad for the saving of lives of men and of women 

and children, 

To creep to the edge of death, to swing in dizzying 

chasms, 

86 



" IN THE CITIES 

To save the children of strangers, forgetting their 
own in their madness; 

And then if a comrade fall, how wild each man to 
the rescue, 

Descending into the pit, poisoned, choked, uncon- 
scious; 

Revived, they struggle back 'gainst their officers' 
vain commandings, — 

Mad, mad, mad, for the saving of human life. 

And now, in the days of peace no squadron charg- 
ing by, 

But hark! down the street a sharp reiterant stroke 
and clamor, 

A rythmic beating of hoofs, a galloping louder, 
closer, 

And again a youth leaps quick to the crossing of 
crowded ways, 

And he swings his arms and shouts, and clears, 
through the human currents, 

A path for the clattering ambulance, hurrying, hur- 
rying, hurrying 

To a place where a child has fallen, is wounded 
nigh unto death, 

That the child may be tenderly lifted and skillfully 
nursed and tended, — 

87 



44 IN THE CITIES 

Engine and clattering ambulance screaming, ring- 
ing, impatient, 

Filling the frightened streets with echoes of old- 
time wars, 

Not as of old to maim, to harry and scatter destruc- 
tion; 

Not to take life, but to save it; not to kill, but to 
rescue the perishing. 



88 



A TRAGEDY OF TO-DAY 

(NEW YORK, I905) 

IN a little theater, in the Jewry of the New World, 
I sat among the sad-eyed exiles ; 

Narrow was the stage and meagerly appointed, 
and the players gave themselves up utterly to their 
art; 

And, before our eyes, were enacted scenes of a 
play that scarcely seemed a play. 

The place was a city in a wide, unhappy land; 

Even in that empire which drifts to-day like a 
great ship toward a black and unknown coast; 

While men, with blanched faces, cry out: " Un- 
less the tempest abates quickly, behold the mighti- 
est wreck on all the shores of time! " 

And the time of the drama was our own time; 
and the coming and the going; and the people 
themselves were of our own day and generation; 

89 



A TRAGEDY OF TO-DAY 

The people, with strange beards, and look of 
the immemorial Orient; like those men and women 
who, alien and melancholy, plod the New-World 
streets; 

Like those who, in slow and pitiful procession, on 
a fixed day of mourning, with dirges and wailings, 
poured innumerous into the city's open places; 

And, as the play went on, at times the very 
speech of the actors, in hot debate, crackled and 
sputtered like the fuse of a Russian bomb. 

And there an old man, the preacher of a hunted 
race and a despised religion, all alone called to his 
people to follow him, and their God, the God of 
Israel. 

Passionately he proclaimed the faith of the 
fathers and the saving word and protecting arm of 
the Almighty; 

He, the voice and the prophet of the Lord High 
God, called aloud to them who strayed : 

" Come ye back to your God, and to His Ever- 
lasting Word. 

"You young men who have forgotten Him, the 
Unforgetting, and you old men mumbling your 
prayers; ye cowards! leaving the holy shrine un- 
protected;" 

90 



A TRAGEDY OF TO-DAY 

And the young men answered and called the 
old man the name of them who are dead and have 
passed away ; 

And the old men, unheeding, swayed to and fro, 
mumbling their ancient psalms and ineffectual sup- 
plications. 

Then, while the noise of the beastly rabble 
swelled louder and nearer — then did the preacher 
turn once more to the Lord of Hosts, lifting up his 
voice in praise and prayer, and faith unquench- 
able; 

Crying to God with a loud voice and saying: 
" Lead me, Thou Jehovah! in the right way, 

" For now hath come the great day of the Lord; 
now, Lord, save Thy people and bless Thy her- 
itage, 

"Thou who wert, and art, and ever shalt be! 
Show now Thy Almightiness, send Thy miracle as 
lightning from on high." 

Nearer and nearer came the curses and shrieks 
and the wailing lamentations; and men and women 
fled, wounded, before the infamous and infuriate 
avengers; 

Then the crash of guns and the terror of car- 
nage and rapine unspeakable; 

9i 



A TRAGEDY OF TO-DAY 

And, in the midst, the voice of an old man cry- 
ing to heaven, and falling smitten and dead before 
the shrine of the God of Israel. 

And, listening, I heard not only the sounds of 
the mimic drama — but, louder and more dreadful, 
the panting of miserable women who welcomed 
death, the deliverer; 

And from Kishineff and Odessa I heard, once 
more crying to heaven, the outpoured blood of the 
Jew. 



And still as I listened and dreamed, the crimson 
flood widened to a great and lustrous pool, 

And looking therein I saw reflected the faces of 
many known well to my heart and to the hearts of 
all the world, 

For there were the features of mighty warriors 
and makers of laws and leaders of men; of poets 
inspired and of painters and musicians; and of 
famed philosophers, and of men and women who 
loved, and labored for, their kind; 

92 



A TRAGEDY OF TO-DAY 

And the faces of preachers and prophets; of 
those who fervently cursed the unrighteous, and 
who to a world in darkness brought light ever- 
lasting; 

And chief of all I saw in that crimson mirror 
the face of him whose spirit was bowed beneath 
the agonies of all mankind. 



93 



THE OLD HOUSE 



HOME of my forebears, home of my dreaming 
childhood, 
House that I love with a love instinctive, changeless, 
Ancestral, mystical, passionate, tender, sorrowful; 
Old house where I was born and my mother before 

me, — 
Strangely the old house speaks to its child returning, 
Speaks with a tone affectionate, intimate, sweet, 
Made, mysterious, out of the voices of many — 
Out of the accents of them, the loving, the loyal, 
That still in memory soothe and murmur and call; 
Voices that greeted my life and guided the journey, 
Human voices, long hushed, and the subtler speech 
That steals from the dumb, dead walls, and whispers 

and thrills, 

From the shadowy chimney-places, and haunted 

nooks; 

94 



THE OLD HOUSE 

These centuried walls, this roof, and the buoyant 
branches 

Of large-leaved, mottled buttonwoods, towering 
mightily, 

And pines that my father planted, now loftily 
dying,— 

These are the vibrant notes of the one deep chord 

That sings in my heart, here by the ancient hearth- 
stone. 



ii 

Five are the generations this place have humaned, 
Leaving their impress, I think, on the breathed air, — 
For full is the house of relics of lives departed: 
Carvings strange that some wanderer here enhar- 

bored, 
Bringing the orient's touch to the wondering child ; 
And Arctic gatherings; hints of the torrid zone; 
And quaint embroideries worked by hands ancestral, 
Deft for the spinning of flax on these silent wheels; 
Books of a day when each was a treasure, a star, — 
And chief of them all, to the trembling heart of a 

boy, 
The verse of him, the singer of song sonorous, 

95 



THE OLD HOUSE 

Whose voice was the voice of trumpets and many 

waters, 
Whose soul went forth with angels and archangels, 
Nor stood dismayed before the Eternal presence. 

Pictures of faces whose features I see in my own, — 
That I see re-imaged by laws unfathomed, fateful, 
In my own children's pleading, innocent faces; 
Volumes of lores outgrown, or a living art; 
Bibles and books of devotion, where names are 

enrolled 
In letters that fade like the image of souls long 

dead. 
Not without tears may I ponder the yellowing leaves 
Where record was made of secretest dreams and 

prayers, — 
Records of love accomplished, or unfulfilled. 
Were the aged faces I knew, the timorous maidens 
Who, wistful, their innocent passions here hinted, 

or hid? 
This wife new-married, so young, so sweet, so 

appealing, 
Was this the angelical mother, she of great sorrows, 
Loving and dreaming in age, as in palpitant girlhood ? 
This lock, among many a tress so lovingly treas- 
ured, — 

9 6 



THE OLD HOUSE 

Ah, this is my own, by hands that I knew so well, 
Cut from a golden head that long has been silvered. 



in 

The old house speaks, and low, in the glimmering 

twilight, 
It murmurs of days that are gone, and spirits 

lamented ; 
A girlish face with a smile all radiant, loving, — 
Sweet cousin mine! where, in the land of shadows, 
Doth that smile illume, that voice bring joy as of 

old? 
This quaint and closeted chamber, ah, here was 

unfolded 
The love of a child for a child, — through years and 

through sorrows 
Remembered and cherished by each — the love of 

the old 
For the old, now, — the love of the old for lost 

youth 
And comrades long gone, and loved and remem- 
bered together. 
And she with the heart of a queen, and the soul 

of a martyr ; 

97 



THE OLD HOUSE 

In young days serene, and blithe and undaunted in 
age,— 

Who loved the old house, even as I — her birth- 
place, her refuge, — 

She in a vision comes near ; — and quick I remember 

One night of all nights, when a messenger stood in 
the doorway, 

Silent he stood, and we knew the message un- 
spoken! 

O night of nights, when a wife turned sudden a 
widow, 

And a child, 'neath the solacing stars, passed swift 
into manhood. 



IV 

But of childhood the old house whispers and mur- 
murs to-night, 
Of the twilight hour in the arms of her the beloved 
And loving sister of her who gave me my being, — 
Who like a second mother encompassed my child- 
hood 
With song and with story, with gleams of fairy and 

hero, 
Chanting in twilight gray the ancient ballads, 

9 8 



THE OLD HOUSE 

Or crooning, as if to herself, the love-songs of 

girlhood; 
Or, again, she fashioned the tales of her own young 

days: 
Of the country balls, in the time when winter was 

winter, 
And the snows were piled — high as the head of a 

man, 
And the ringing sleighs sped over the fields and the 

fences 
To the revels and routs in the taverns of long ago, — 
When the dancing would last till dawn, and the 

dancers flew 
From village to village, and tavern to tavern, all 

night; 
Turning the snow-lit dark to rollicking day. 
O days and nights of a far and happy world ! 



Of childhood the old house whispers, of wintry 

sports 
With sled and skate on the ponds long filled and 

forgotten ; 

99 



THE OLD HOUSE 

Wild joys of meadow, and woods, and waters; of 

branches 
Laden with black-heart cherries, where boys and 

birds 
Alternate shared the wealth of the aery feast. 
Of boyhood the old house whispers, of moonlit 

voyages 
On the wooded stream, that wound in silent reaches, 
Far through the mystic land of awakening life. 



VI 

And now, in the twilight hour, dear, living voices, 
The voices of children I hear, they come to my call ; 
And I tell of the days that are gone, and they hark 

with delight, — 
As I, in my youth, heard the tales of the ancient 

days; 
Then good-night, and to bed! But the teller of 

ancient tales 
Stays by the dying fire and listens, again, 
To the thronging voices that murmur to him alone. 



ioo 



"THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE THE 
OLD PLACE!" 



BACK to the old place I 've come home again, 
Back at last from the big town, 
After so many hard and struggling years ; 
Back to the old home, the old home in the moun- 
tains, 
In the valley of childhood; 
And I say to myself, again and again I say : 
There's no place like the old place! 

ii 

Here once more 1 wander, here in the valley of 

brooks, — 
I wander a stranger — where every spring and tree 

and rock is familiar. 

IOI 



"there's no place like the old place !" 

The little brooks tinkle down, with the old music, 

through the pine-darkened gorges; 
The brooks that sometimes run dry, or hide under 

the smooth stones; 
In the time of fulness leaping from ledge to ledge 

down to the big brook that never dries; 
Where the trout dartle and the pools are shadowy 

and cool 
And good to the hot body of a boy. 
Lovely, with an intimate loveliness, is the valley, 
And again and again I chant to myself: 
O, there's no place like the old place! 



in 

There's no place like the old place! 
Strangely nearer seem the walls of the valley, 
Though far and spacious as ever the mysterious 

sunset. 
Never before have I felt so intensely the beauty of 

it all, — 
How well-shaped the double valley; 
The upper valley like a great, green bowl, 
And the lower valley opening out toward the sunset . 

like a trumpet; 

102 



" there's no place like the old place!" 

The mountains embowered with evergreens, and 

maples, and chestnuts, — 
Or lying naked in the sun, — 
Scraped bare by the ancient glacier, 
Scoured by rains and scarred by lightnings, 
And with a look as if the salt sea had beaten and 

bitten there for a thousand years. 

IV 

Stately and gracious with elms and willows are the 
smooth and grassy meadows 

Leveled for human use by the lakes of untold ages, 

Then covered with forests, that the pioneers up- 
rooted, — 

Rich now and full of peace; bringing back the 
well-loved images of the Bible; 

Meadows where first I heard the swift song of the 
bobolink, — 

Throbbing and ringing madly, back and forth in 
the meadow air, — 

And whence, in full summer, after a long, hot day 

The boy that was I, came back to the home barn 

Royally charioted on the high-piled, sweet-scented 
hay. 

Ah, there's no place like the old place! 

103 



" there's no place like the old place! 3 



There, under the hill is the homestead; 

How large the maples have grown that the old 

folks planted! 
Sweet was the sap in the spring and the shade in 

the summer. 
I never knew such water as from the spring at our 

house, 
Running cold as ice in the kitchen and out in the 

barn. 
And the little window up there was mine! 
I tell you I slept well, and rose early in those days, 
Though sometimes at night after a long rain, or 

when the ice was melting in Hayes's pond, 
I could scarce sleep for the brook roaring like 

Niagara, 
As it leaped the mill-dams and spread put over the 

meadows, 
Scurrying great logs along, and every footbridge in 

the valley. 
But most times it was quiet enough at the old 

home, — 
The dear old place, the old place that 's the best 

place! 

104 



" there's no place like the old place!" 

VI 

O, there's no place like the old place, and no time 

like the old time! 
The chores were rough, but the keener the zest for 

the play! 

For chestnuting in the frosty autumn, 

For the tug of the bass at Goose pond and the lake 

at Monterey, 
And the day of fun at the county fair; 
For the skim on the frozen meadow on winter 

nights, 
Or the watch at the pickerel flags in the ice-holes 

on the white spread of the mountain lakes, 
Or the flying plunge of the bob-sled down Paper- 
mill hill; 
The chase for the woodchuck, and the far-circling 

fox, and the all-night tramp for the treed 

'coon; 
For a hay-ride with a bevy of girls and a moonlight 

drive with one; 
For wanderings through the woods and over the 

hills, — 
When the billowing mountain-laurel from afar off 
io5 



" there's no place like the old place!" 

Looked like flocks of sheep on the high terraces of 

the old Sweet farm; 
When the hiding arbutus or gossamer clematis 

scented the clean air; 
When came the child's first thrill at the boom of 

the startled partridge, 
And when first the adventurer heard a whole, great 

blossoming linden 
Humming, with honey-gathering bees, like the 

plucked string of a violin. 

VII 

O, there's no place like the old place! 

Mightier mountains there are, sky-piercing and 

snow-covered all the year round, 
But the lion-like curve of Cobble, clear-cut against 

the southern heavens, 
On still, cold nights heaves close to the thick stars; 
And the white ways of the Galaxy I have seen start 

from the lion's head 
And sweep over to the long mountain, as if all the 

light and glory were for the valley only. 
Day and night, in sunlight and starlight, and in the 

light of the moon — 
Beautiful, beautiful is the valley of brooks. 

106 



" there's no place like the old place ! m 

Travellers have said that in the whole earth there 

is none more beautiful. 
Why have I stayed away so long? 
I think I will come again and again before I die, — 
And perhaps after I have died; for in the white 

graveyard on the hill 
Rest in the long sleep some whom one day I should 

like to join. 
I wonder shall I seem to them as strange as now 

to me 
The image of my own self as I was in the days of 

childhood: 
An image that haunts me hourly while here I wan- 
der and dream, 
And makes me strange to myself in a curious 

double existence. 
The old friends seem to know me — but I am never 

deceived; 
The one that I am is not the one that I was — yet 

truly 
No one but I ever knew the youth who departed, 
And the youth who departed still lives in the elder 

returning, 
In whose bosom revive the days that forever are 

gone — 

107 



"there's no place like the old place!" 

The old love and the old sweet longings; 

The old love for the old place, that deepens as age 

comes closer, 
And the heart keeps sighing and singing: 
There's no place like the old place! 



108 



H 



GLEN GILDER 



OW curves the little river through Glen Gilder, 
OGlen Gilder; 
Now it runs and now it rushes, now it sings and now 

it hushes 
O'er the rocks and by the brushes in Glen Gilder. 



All music is the river in Glen Gilder, O Glen Gilder; 
It sounds like wild birds singing, and it chimes like 

bells a-ringing, — 
Birds, too, their songs are flinging in Glen Gilder. 

in 

O mighty are the willows of Glen Gilder, of Glen 

Gilder; 
Cool the air and cool the waters 'neath the giant 

spreading shadows, 
And beyond wide sweep the meadows from Glen 

Gilder. 

109 



GLEN GILDER 



IV 



O, there's life and fun and frolic in Glen Gilder, in 

Glen Gilder; 
And near the men are haying, and here the cows 

are straying, 
And the lambs and colts are playing in Glen Gilder. 



Spring and autumn bring a change to fair Glen 

Gilder, O Glen Gilder; 
Above the banks and under come the freshet's 

rage and thunder, 
And men look with awe and wonder on Glen Gilder. 

VI 

O, white the world of winter in Glen Gilder, in 

Glen Gilder; 
'Neath ice the waves are creeping, or in the dark 

pool sleeping, 
Or with sounds of sleigh-bells leaping in Glen 

Gilder. 

VII 

O, beautiful the morning in Glen Gilder, in Glen 
Gilder; 

no 



GLEN GILDER 

But, O, most dear and tender when blooms the 

sunset splendor, 
At dying day's surrender in Glen Gilder. 

VIII 

And now the lingering sunlight leaves Glen Gilder, 

O Glen Gilder; 
While moony shades are stalking, is it the wavelets 

talking, 
Or whispering lovers walking in Glen Gilder? 



in 



M 



SONG 

ARIA mia! all in white 

Your fairy form against the night, 
Maria! 



Maria mia! in the night 
Gleams like a ghost your form so slight, 

Maria! 

Maria mia! like a sprite 

Burn those eyes in dusky light, 

Maria! 

Maria mia! sweet and wise 

Those darkling, deep, Italian eyes, 

Maria ! 

Maria mia! starry skies 
Hold no such brightness as those eyes, 

Maria ! 

112 



SONG 

Maria mia! turn, O turn 
Those eyes away that beam and burn, 

Maria ! 

Maria mia! when those eyes 

Burn close, O close, I am not wise, 

Maria! 
I am not wise, 

Maria! 



ii3 



OBSCURATION 

THIS night, when I blew out my candle flame, 
The window's dark square suddenly turned 
white! — 
I had not known the half-moon shone so bright, 
And that a cool, sweet, silent moonbeam came 
Through summer air, faint-touched with autumn 

frost, 
And poured upon my floor a pool of light! 
Pure, heavenly visitant — and almost thou wert lost. 



"I DREAMED" 

I DREAMED a tender and mysterious dream 
Of one who, threading paths of earthly fate, 
In a rich twilight walked, with heart aglow, 
And all his soul vibrant with unheard tones, 
" Drawn, drawn by the soft splendor of a face/' 



114 



IMPROMPTUS 

" From Love to Love" 
(for a wedding) 

FROM love to love she passes on this day; 
Yet all the love she leaves with her doth stay; 
Deep, deep, the new love, in her heart of hearts, 
And the old love follows her when she departs: 
So is she richer than she was before, 
For of true love she hath a mightier store. 



" I Asked You to Read My Poem " 
i 

I ASKED you to read my poem, so shameless 
was I, 
I — not used such boon and service to ask; 
This my excuse, — when you hear, you will not deny 
The prayer of the poet, who saw the soul through 
the mask. 

ii5 



IMPROMPTUS 



II 



The singer sails in a sea beyond sight or ken, 
And he flings his plummet of song by night and 
by day; 
With his poems he sounds the depths of the souls 
of men, — 
In your soul my song I flung to fathom the way. 



Nazimova 

FROM every motion, every lovely line, 
Breathe art and passion ; music from those lips ; 
The tragic Orient from those lustrous eyes. 



A Warrior of Troy 

LET other gray-beards mourn the flight of years, 
' Finding no gains of eld to match its fears; 
I have no feud with fate, nor age, nor time, 
Who knew great Helen in her golden prime. 



116 



impromptus 

The Obelisk (1881) 

BENEATH a stone wrenched from Egyptian 
sands 
Six rivers run through six imperial lands; 
Nile, Bosphorus, Tiber, Seine and Thames, till now 
The Hudson wears the jewel on her brow. 
Land that we love! O be thou, by this sign, 
Though last, the noblest of the mighty line. 



Crowned Absurdities 

I ASKED me: what in all the world so odd 
And laughable to men, and unto God, — 
The height of comedy in earthly things? 
That lot of little men pretending to be kings! 



To il Little Lady Margaret" — With a 
Book of Poems 

'"T^HEY who love the poets 

-*- Will never lack* a friend — 
Up the road, and down the road, 
And to the very end. 



117 



impromptus 

Sacrilege 

TI TED, thou, with sweet and silent Death, 
* * Rather than join the prurient throng 

Would soil, with foul, empoisoned breath, 
The sanctity of song. 



To the Hero of a Scientific Romance 

T F you wish, go be a pig, 
-1- In and out of season; 
But do not bore us with a big 
Philosophic reason. 



THE WATCHMAN ON THE 
TOWER 

(JANUARY, I907) 

TIfATCHMAN 7 What seest thou in the New 

Dawn ? 

Far off, across the seas, I behold men pursuing 

men and helpless women with dreadful massacre; 

borne on the eastern wind I hear the horrible cries 

of the murdered and bereft. 

And what seest thou nearer, O Watchman of the 
Tower ? 

Nearer I see dark and cowering forms of crime 
and frightened innocence, alike given pitilessly to 
the green tree and the red flame. 

And what else nearer dost thou see. O Seer of Evil 
Things ? 

I see smoldering fires and drift of black smoke 
where all manner of shames have been burned in 
the market-places, befouling the pure air of heaven. 

And now, again, thou seest — ? 

119 



THE WATCHMAN ON THE TOWER 

I see scared creatures, in shape of men, fleeing 
from the light, and hiding in clefts of rocks, and in 
far places of the earth. 

Look well, O Watchman, look near and wide, and tell 
us, who wait, what other things thou dost behold ! 

I see the shining faces of little children from 
whose backs heavy burdens have been lifted; I see 
rich men eagerly scattering their wealth among 
those who need, — lifting up the stricken and re- 
storing the power of self-help to the sturdy; I see 
those who labor winning an ampler share in the 
profits of their toil — in wage, and comfort, and 
safety, and time for rest; I behold Science con- 
quering the secrets and guiding the forces of nature, 
and creating new and wondrous devices for human 
happiness, — working miracles in culture of the soil, 
and in the cure of sickness; I behold Art going up 
and down the land, making homes and cities more 
beautiful; I behold Service honored above posses- 
sions; I see men as brothers, — in times of calm 
and in days of monstrous calamity, — stretching 
hands to one another over lands and seas, and 
across the ancient barriers of race, and religion, and 
condition; I see the hearts of men go out, in new 

120 



THE WATCHMAN ON THE TOWER 

love and care and understanding, to the beasts of 
the field and to the birds of the air; I hear the 
voices of poets and prophets troubling the hearts 
and lifting up the souls of all mankind; and in all 
these I see the mind of the Son of Man, and the 
power of the Will Eternal. 

O Seer of Good and Evil, what else, what else ? 

Near by I behold the Angel of a People, and in 
his hand he bears a standard whereon is writ in 
letters of light, the one word Truth ; higher he 
bears the standard than ever before, and the people, 
in gathering numbers, follow the Word. 

And what of the evil things that late thou sawest? 

Still I see them, and many more, but fainter are 
they growing, as by some element of light consumed. 
Yet doth one strange and greatly evil thing loom 
with menace against the dawn — the shadow of false 
and self-seeking men who seize the banner of right- 
eousness and with unclean hands uplift it, to the 
deceiving of many; and yet even here, I know, 
it is the love of Right and not of Wrong which doth 
mislead; and as the light increases surely the pure 
in heart shall know their own and shun the deceiver 
of souls. 

121 



THE WATCHMAN ON THE TOWER 

And what of the good that late thou saw est ? 

O still I see the good, and with clearer eyes; 
and, lo, it doth appear that, in the light of the New 
Dawn, greater and always greater grows the good, 
and nearer and always nearer. For now, with the 
rising sun, a company of angels in new flight lift 
their wings and come upon the day, and one is the 
bright Angel of Freedom, and one the strong Angel 
of Justice, and one is the undaunted Angel of 
Peace, and one the Angel of Hope Everlasting. 
With a great and wonderful burst of light they come, 
and with loud music of instruments and many voices. 
O Watcher of the Dawn ! thou seest what is, but 
canst thou see what yet shall be ? 

O ye who doubt! In the visible present lives 
the invisible future, and the hour that is brings the 
hour that shall be. If the Light grows, it shall not 
cease to grow; and the good that is brings the 
good that is to come. As with separate souls, so 
with peoples, — the New Year, though it holds 
inheritance of shame and loss, holds, also, inherit- 
ance of striving, and accomplishment, and divine 
aspiration. Lo, the Light is climbing, not only of 
a New Year, but of a New Era for the awakening 
world. 

122 



UNDER THE STARS 



UNDER THE STARS 

A REQUIEM FOR AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS 
I 

O KINDRED stars, wherethrough his soul in 
flight 
Passed to the immortals! 'neath your ageless light 
I stand perplexed, remembering that keen spirit 
Quenched in mid-strength ; the world, that shall 

inherit 
His legacy of genius, all deprived 
Of wealth untold, the still ungathered fruit 
Of that great art! What honey all unhived; 
What unborn grandeurs; noble music mute! 

ii 

O silent stars! even as I hearken here, 
Heart-heavy, a murmurous and mysterious voice, 
Blent with sweet wiry tones, on the inward ear 
Strikes, and I hear the summons: " O rejoice, 
Rejoice and mourn not! " Then that wondrous star 
Now drawn near earth, — named for the god of 

war, — 
The fiery planet cries across the night: 
' 'Victory, Victory, he hath won the fight! " 

125 



UNDER THE STARS 

III 
O star of fire ! he was thy very child ! 
Mixed with his blood thy fierce, ensanguined ray! 
'Gainst the proud forces of the sordid day 
He battled valiantly, all unbeguiled 
By what might tempt or foil a lesser soul. 
Not wealth, nor ease, nor praise unworthily won 
Could touch his spirit; — " There the swift course 

to run! " 
" There, there, O see! the bright, immortal goal! " 

IV 

Thou star of blood and battle! rich and sweet 
Thy liquid gleam, where, in the twilight sky, 
Thou shinest greatly! So did his art repeat 
Thy strength, thy loveliness; thy ministry, — 
In a dark, harmful world, — of Beauty's guerdon; — 
Beauty that broods, enlightens, and makes endure 
The heart of man beneath its heavy burden, 
Lifting above the strife a deathless lure. 



O starry skies! O palpitant winds whose throbbings 
From out the vast of heaven pulse and flow! 
In light and sound eterne our human sobbings 
126 



UNDER THE STARS 

Are lost. — How dear to him who lieth low 
The garment wonderful wild nature throws 
About its inner life: green glades withdrawn; 
Anger of ocean ; beauty of the rose ; 
The pomp superb of sunset and of dawn. 

VI 

White, trembling fires of the unknown universe! 
Ye speak of some august, inscrutable Power 
Creative, from whose hand, to bless or curse, 
Ye were sent forth — thrillingly, in an hour 
Of force stupendous, swift, immeasurable ; 
To-night those unconsuming fires tell 
Of one, who, in the splendor of his passion, 
Alas! though mortal, could the immortal fashion. 

VII 

O stars that sing as in creation's prime! 
He whom, with love and tears, we celebrate, 
He, like the Power that made ye, could create, — 
Bringing to birth new beauty for all time : 
Once, lo! these shapes were not, now do they live, 
And shall forever in the hearts of men ; 
And from their life new life shall spring again, 
To souls unborn new light and joy to give. 
127 



UNDER THE STARS 

VIII 
Ye stars, all music to the spirit's ear! 
Before the imperial music-masters knelt 
This master of an art sublime, austere; 
The very soul of music in him dwelt, 
So in his lines the haunting strains of lyres, 
From gracious forms deep tones symphonic spring; 
Once more we hear the sound of heavenly wires, 
Again the stars of morn together sing. 

IX 

Red star of war! thy sons did he enshrine 

In glorious art, — fighters on sea and land; 

In bronze they give again the brave command; 

In bronze they march resistless, in divine 

Ecstasy of devotion, not in wrath; 

The fire and fury of battle he made real, 

But like God's prophets moved they on their path 

Led and uplifted by the great Ideal. 

x 

O fateful stars! that lit the climbing way 
Of that dear, martyred son of fate and fame, — 
The supreme soul of an immortal day, — 
Linked with his name is our great sculptor's name; 
128 



UNDER THE STARS 

For now in art eternal breathes again 
The gaunt, sweet presence of our chief of men, — 
That soul of tenderness; that spirit stern, 
Whose fires divine forever flame and burn. 

XI 

Stars of white midnight! though unseen by day, 
Imagined! He the unseen could subtly see 
And image forth in most divine array: 
Blest Charity, and Love, and Loyalty, 
And Victory, and Grief; and, with a touch 
Made tender by heroic years of pain, — 
Telling in art what words might not contain, — 
The calm, sweet face of Him who suffered much. 

XII 

Mysterious sky! where orbs constellate reign! 
Toward which the heart of man through endless ages 
Hath flung eternal questionings in vain, — 
Yet hath he read a little in thy pages ; 
And him we miss, learned well from thee to mould, — 
As by the hand of Fate, in time's dark womb, — 
That mystic form, a thousand centuries old ; 
That mournless mourner near a tragic tomb. 
129 



UNDER THE STARS 

XIII 
Ye stars eternal! in your motions wide 
I feel the march of time; audibly pours 
To faithful ears the immemorial tide 
Of starry seas that beat on infinite shores; 
And, in that music magical, cold death, — 
And grief its shadow, — melt and are undone; 
And that which brings the miracle of breath, 
And that which takes, — aye, that which takes, — 
are one. 

XIV 

O star of war! beyond thy troublous beams 

His freed soul wings to a great calm at last; 

The deep night, with its tremulous, starry streams 

Of light celestial, pours repose so vast 

Nought can escape that flood; and now the faces, 

Angelical, he moulded with pure art, 

In majesty look forth from heavenly spaces: 

Enter thy peace, O high, tempestuous heart! 



130 



OCT 9 190? 



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